Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [62]
The android observed the emotion in Geordi’s face. Was that sorrow? Or guilt? Or a combination of both, perhaps?
“He still may,” suggested Data. “You did say he was alive, did you not?”
Geordi sighed. “That’s what I said, all right.”
The android didn’t know quite what to do next. But he knew what he didn’t want to do, and that was leave.
“May I remain here,” he asked, “until we learn the outcome of Commander Riker’s situation?”
The engineering chief smiled. “Sure. In fact, I wish you would.”
“Thank you,” said Data. He took a seat on the opposite side of the room.
And in shared silence they waited.
It was cold in the narrow street, but Crusher barely felt it. She was too intent on nurturing the spark of life that still burned in her patient.
She looked up at Lyneea. “The knife,” she said, “is going to have to come out.”
The Impriman nodded soberly. “You hold him,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Crusher put her tricorder down and took Riker by the shoulders. His head lolled; his face was ashen.
The doctor thanked God he wouldn’t feel the procedure. Introducing Riker to a hefty dose of painkillers was the second thing she’d attended to. The first had been to give him something for the shock.
“I’ve got him,” she told Lyneea. With more strength than Crusher would have given her credit for, she slipped the blade out in one motion.
Blood gushed, but not as badly as the doctor had expected. Apparently the weapon had missed the major blood vessels. Lucky.
Sure. Real lucky.
Working as quickly as she could, Crusher applied the dermaplast she’d brought in her pack. First to Riker’s back, where the wound gaped larger. Then to his chest.
That would stop the flow of blood. Judging by his pressure and by the pool of crimson slush in which they were kneeling, he had little enough to spare.
Next she brought out the equipment that would actually heal the wound. Not that she expected to be able to do it here in the street, but if she could get the process off to a good start, there would be less chance of infection.
After a few minutes she noticed Lyneea’s expression. The Impriman looked angry. At her?
“Something wrong?” she asked.
Lyneea frowned and looked away. “These instruments are forbidden here,” she said. “This is carnival time.”
“Would you rather I let him die?” said the doctor. She understood the reference, thanks to her discussions with Wesley about Besidia. “It was you who called for help,” she reminded Lyneea, glancing at the communicator that lay beside her tricorder. “With a device, I might add, that is no less technologically advanced.”
Lyneea swarlowed.
Riker moaned softly. Crusher brushed aside the matted hair on his forehead and got another look from Lyneea—but this one, she realized, had nothing to do with technology. And she suddenly knew why the Impriman had broken her people’s law to aid the human.
“We’ve got to get him out of here,” said Lyneea, ignoring the penetrating quality of Crusher’s scrutiny. “It’s a miracle someone hasn’t come down the street and seen us already.”
The doctor nodded. “But we can’t carry him very far by ourselves.” She would have preferred not to move him at all, but she recognized the danger in remaining out in the open.
Lyneea took a quick look around. Her search seemed to end at a boarded-up door between two shops. Rising to her feet, she took a couple of quick steps and slammed shoulder-first into the door. There was a cracking sound as it yielded partway. When Lyneea followed with a sharp kick, the door swung inward, revealing a shadowy interior.
“We can hide the two of you in here,” she told Crusher, “at least until I can get some help from my madraga. Then we can find a better place.”
There didn’t seem to be any other options. “Agreed,” said the doctor.
As gently as they could, they picked Riker up and carried him through the open doorway.
Beverly Crusher’s words were like cool water to a man dying of thirst: “He’s going to be all right.”
A cheer went up from those on the bridge, a wave of gladness that swelled and broke, washing away the